


a routine malaise

by insunshine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So about a month ago, Mike Richards threw out a twitter challenge to Andrew Ladd and then <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JN_wN29N_bo">this happened</a>.</p><p>This is the story of what might've gone down if they'd had sex after. (For the sake of fiction, neither Mike nor Andrew are attached to partners in this story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a routine malaise

**Author's Note:**

> Audienced by Amanda and Diane, betaed by Erin and literally whipped into shape by Ceej. These ladies are the best! If this story is at all readable, it's due to their graciousness and patience with me.

“Sure, we’re friends,” Richie says, smiling directly at the huge camera three feet away from his face. His arm is draped over Andrew’s shoulder, sweaty and a little heavy. Andrew doesn’t shove him off. It’s cold out here, the wind picking up even though it’s barely half past nine in the morning.

“Andrew?” The reporter asks, and Andrew tips his head forward so he can hear her better. He smiles when she speaks, voice clipped from the cold or maybe annoyance at having to repeat herself thirty times. “How would you characterize your relationship with Mike? Should we expect cutthroat action or more sportsmanlike conduct?”

“From me and Richie?” he says. “Both. We go way back.”

“I’m not afraid to kick this loser’s ass on the ice,” Richie adds. “Ma’am.”

“It’s so great that neither of you have forgotten where you come from,” she says. “It’s wonderful that you’re giving back to the community.” She squeezes Andrew’s arm, not flirting or anything. Maybe she’s just really passionate about charity.

Andrew's not even from this province, but he nods along regardless. Winnipeg has been as much a home to him as any other market and it’s great to be playing in Canada again, or it would be if they actually were.

“There you have it,” the reporter says, turning around and smiling brightly into the camera again. Andrew’s been interviewed a lot by the media over the years, but there’s a pretty huge difference between getting iPhones shoved in your face in the dressing room after a game and light and camera guys hanging around making sure this woman hits her cues. “These bright young men are setting a great example for all of us here at home who are missing professional hockey.”

“You hear that?” Richie asks. His voice is low and scratchy, and the arm around Andrew’s shoulders feels more like an anchor than a weight. “She thinks I’m a good influence.”

Andrew can’t see Richie’s exact expression, but he’d bet the fucker’s grinning. 

“Maybe you should brush up on your English,” he says. “She thinks you’re okay at hockey. That’s probably the Cup talking, not like, actual knowledge about your skills.” It’s not that funny, but it makes Richie laugh anyway, arm tightening over Andrew’s shoulders. 

The camera is still pointed at them but they’re not in the foreground right now, and when he speaks, it’s under his breath. 

“Who knew this was even news,” he says. It’s not really on the mark, though. In the absence of an abundance of hockey, everything they do has an extra level of scrutiny attached to it.

“I could’ve probably guessed,” Richie deadpans.

Andrew makes a show of shrugging Richie’s arm off. The cold rushes to take its place almost immediately, but Andrew shrugs that off too. They’re suiting up in a few minutes anyway.

;;

The game is the kind of success that everyone’s expecting it to be. A lot of people come out, a lot of sponsors are excited by the prospect of different revenue streams and supporting young, apple-cheeked kids with bright futures ahead of them. 

Cabbie Richards is doing a piece for TSN about it, which is only weird because Andrew doesn’t know him well, or at least not as well as Richie does. He’s a decent guy, and Richie swears up and down that he’s good people. There’s no apparent reason not to trust that assessment.

“Take me through a typical day,” he says, later, leaning against the back of the couch and framing them like his hands are a camera. 

They’re lounging in the basement of Richie’s brand new house, because it’s the only room that’s really furnished. Richie’s been talking about buying a pool table for pretty much as long as Andrew’s known him, but that doesn’t actually make the one he has any less dumb.

“I’m just saying,” Andrew says. “Porn has ruined pool for me. I can’t even think of playing this game without imagining Cindy-Lou Whatever with her ankles over her head, moaning in really this really bored voice with 70s hair and fake tits.”

Richie ignores him at first, trying to set up a perfect shot. He’s not that great at pool either, though, despite the setup. 

“What the fuck, Andy,” he says eventually, barely flicking his eyes over. “What kind of sick-ass Doctor Seuss porn are you watching, man?”

“You know what I mean,” Andrew says.

Richie laughs. “I really don’t,” he says. “Focus. Billiards is a beautiful thing if you know how to do it right.”

“Because you know how to do it right?” Andrew asks.

“It’s a game of a strength and skill. I’ve got that shit locked up. _Obviously_.”

“Oh, _obviously_ ,” Andrew agrees, just to watch Richie’s eyes narrow. “It sure does take a lot of strength to push a little ball across the some fabric.” Andrew drags his pointer finger against the felt, testing the weight of it. “That’s a normal day, Cab,” he adds looking at Cabbie over his shoulder, “arguing with Richie here.”

“I’m not even a little surprised,” Cabbie calls back. He’s got a camera guy with him and a photographer, too, a stocky woman named Jae or Jo, with a blunt buzz cut and deep red lipstick. 

Richie flips him off. He has a lot of aggression issues he should probably work through. It’s a lot harder, though, when they’re not contractually obligated to put the beat-down on their opponents.

“Are we doing this or what?” he asks. He’s doing his best to ignore the people setting up lights in his den by focusing really, really hard on the pool table.

Jae smiles when she catches Andrew’s eye and says, “How about a couple pictures, boys? This place is really nice, Mike.”

Richie’s demeanor changes almost immediately. He smiles his Kenora best and says, “Thanks a lot," and, “Sure. We wouldn’t mind, right, Andy?”

“Wouldn’t mind at all.” 

Andrew takes the opposite side and chalks his cue. He hasn’t really played pool in years, but Richie’s always going on about how it’s a stress reliever. It’s time to put that assessment to the test.

He bends, aiming for a pretend shot, and tries not to blink as the flash goes.

;;

Cabbie sticks around for dinner, even though Jae and Camera Guy Mike turn down the offer. Richie grills steaks on the screen porch, but it’s freezing outside, so Andrew hangs back in the kitchen, shooting the shit with Cabbie over a pair of Molsons.

“Should we set the table?” Cabbie asks, lounging on one of the padded chairs. Andrew shrugs, but does it anyway, putting out the biodegradable stuff they’d grabbed from the market before the game earlier in the day.

Richie pokes his head in and says, “Hey, make a salad, would you? There’s spinach in the fridge.”

Andrew knows there is, because he’d put it there, but he lets Cabbie laugh and say, “Yes, dear,” even though he doesn’t actually get up. 

It doesn’t take long to throw the greens together. There’s not much to talk about besides hockey, but even on his best day, Cabbie’s not the biggest fan. Andrew has other interests, sure, but he doesn’t eat, sleep and breathe any of them.

“Where do you go, to, like, rage after a great game, though? Who do you party with? Guys on the team? A special lady?” 

Andrew hasn’t spent a lot of time listening to his radio show, but questions like that sound like the lead-up to a story about fucking in the back of a limo or getting the shit kicked out of you during sex.

“I’m not really seeing anybody right now,” Andrew says instead. He’s gotten really good at the whole gender-neutral pronouns thing.

“Lame-o,” Cabbie says. “You make, like, 30 times the amount of a normal person, and you’re telling me no lady wants to get up on your dick?”

It’s not like this is the first time anyone’s brought it up, but Andrew’s still a little surprised at how direct the question is.

“Uhhh.” He drags the word out, not really sure what to say. “No? I mean, who wants to fuck a person based on their yearly income?” Cabbie makes a hilarious face, like he’s actually calculating the statistics, so Andrew rushes to add, “I mean, I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t _have_ to,” he says, and then launches into a story about his girlfriend almost breaking her leg after one too many shots. “So she’s running, right? And I’m telling her, no! Stop! You’re gonna break your neck! But did she listen? No.” He makes another face, taking a pull from his beer and gesturing with his hand, like: _women, right?_

Andrew laughs in the right places and says, “Did she get hurt?”

Cabbie laughs too. “Twisted her ankle. Had to get thirteen stitches in her knee, too. I got to carry her to the car, though, so it was worth it.”

“Knight in shining armor play,” Andrew says. “Nice.” They clink the rims of their bottles together.

Richie comes in a few minutes later, shouting for attention like there are more than three people in the room. 

“Out of the way, out of the way, hot food on the move!” Andrew clears space for the platter, laughing, even though Richie’s a total loser.

“I was just telling Andy about what happened that time with Jasmine and the Patron shots,” Cabbie says when they’re all seated and eating. 

Richie makes a mean burger, and Andrew’s mouth is full, so he can’t answer without spraying food everywhere. He nods where he’s supposed to, though, and Richie laughs like he’s familiar with the story.

“I still can’t believe she fucked you after getting out of the ER.” He takes another pull of his beer, his words rolling together a little. It’s not even all that late, barely past nine, but they’ve had a long fucking day. Andrew can feel the exhaustion pooling in his joints.

“We did have to get creative,” Cabbie concedes, laughing. He doesn’t share the details, though, which is for the best.

He doesn’t stick around much longer, either, hugging both of them at the door. It’s quiet as they do the dishes, Richie humming along with a commercial on TV.

“Really?” Andrew asks, checking the washer closed with his hip.

Richie scowls at him. “It gets stuck in my head, sometimes. Shut up.”

He starts humming the song from the Meow Mix commercial again, louder this time. Arnold pokes his head out from under the table, like he recognizes the tune, and Richie bends to get closer to him, holding the dog’s face in his hands as he sings to him directly.

“That’s right, bud.” he says. “You know the words too, huh?”

Arnold huffs like he understands, and Richie laughs again. He’s still smiling when he looks back at Andrew.

“My dog is the smartest dog,” he says.

Andrew hums in response, wiping down the sink with a dish towel, and then tossing it aside. “Or, your dog is humoring you because you’re a giant loser.”

Richie doesn’t seem to be getting up, even though there are comfy chairs and an entertainment center less than a room away, so Andrew kneels as well, reaching out his hand tentatively for Arnold to sniff.

“You crashing here?” Richie asks after a while. 

Andrew thinks about it. It’s not that far to where he’s been staying at Toews’ place, but getting in his truck and driving seems like a lot of work. Too much work.

“You mind?” he asks. “I can just take a couch. You have enough of ‘em.”

“I also have guest bedrooms.” Richie pushes up to his feet and holds his hand out, like maybe Andrew’s incapable of getting up on his own.

“I can get up on my own, asshole,” Andrew says, but he uses Richie’s grip as leverage anyway.

On the second floor, Richie says, “Take the one down the hall from me. It has a half-bath attached if you want to shower or whatever.”

Andrew thinks about it, but just walking up the stairs has his legs screaming. “I think I might just crash.”

“There’s a spare toothbrush in there too.” Richie says it like it’s not shifty, but it is. That’s a totally shifty thing just to throw out there.

Andrew laughs, because he can’t help it. “What,” he says, “are you a hostess now? You get a lot of guests at Casa de Richie?”

“Sometimes! Sometimes people crash and they like to smell minty fresh in the morning.”

“How long has the toothbrush been in there? Do you buy a new one every time your lady friends stay over? Has it been _months_?” The hall light is dimmed, but Richie’s blush is still pretty obvious.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles. “They don’t usually spend the night.”

;;

Mornings have a pretty set routine. Andrew normally gets up at eight, does his trainer-regulated stretches by quarter past the hour, runs five miles, eats an egg white omelet when he gets back home and is already showered by noon for his trouble. 

Richie’s pretty much the same, so they lace up together, leash Arnold and run down the sloping roads of the neighborhood.

They cool down on the track behind the middle school, stretching out and head back to Richie’s without saying much. The sky is the kind of overcast that says it’ll probably rain soon, and they make it back just as it’s really starting to pour. Andrew showers when they get in, and Richie’s standing over the stove, already scrambling eggs when he gets back downstairs again.

“Hey,” he says, and Richie nods his greeting. 

Arnold’s lounging on the floor by the screen porch, and Andrew’s just leaning down to say hello when Richie clears his throat. 

“Did you say something?”

“I said I think you should fuck me,” Richie says, and Andrew thinks—Andrew thinks, _shit, just for making breakfast?_ and _I’m not Jeff Carter, do I really have to deal with this?_

What he says instead is, “You ever done that before?” 

Bouncing around from market to market in their organization gets you a real good feel for reporters and the kind of bullshit they shoot out. Leading questions are good. The longer you get people talking, the more they give you to work with and the less you sound like an ass. It’s a process, but it’s a pretty fool-proof one.

“Yes,” Richie says, rolling his eyes, and for some reason that _s_ resonates. Andrew doesn’t make a huge show of sitting up straighter or anything, but he’s listening. He’s _listening_.

Andrew exhales and thinks about Gary Bettman getting fucked by the rubberman from that American Horror Story show Josh likes. He thinks about wars and dogs getting kicked but his dick is still interested, so he says, “Maybe—”

“Let me stop you there,” Richie interrupts, holding out his hands like he’s calling for a ref. “I’m not talking about a relationship. I’m talking about a fuck.”

Richie’s an asshole, so the word _relationship_ has air quotes around it. 

“Who said I wanted to date you?” Andrew asks, which is a pretty reasonable question. “Why would you think I’d want to fuck a dude, anyway, man?” He straightens up to his full height, which is more than a couple inches taller than Richie, even when he’s slouching. “Do I, like, project ‘gay’ to you or something?” 

He’s kept his interest mostly under wraps, but getting laid has never been difficult, depending on the market. Winnipeg has been the most challenging city to hook up in, but that’s because hockey’s charged in Canada. People notice. People _care_. 

He can’t really go anywhere near home without getting recognized, either, these days, but usually it’s not too bad. Grow a beard, wear a ball cap and maybe some glasses and he’s usually set.

“You looked like you might want a piece of this,” Richie says, totally serious.

Andrew catches himself before he laughs, and instead says, “You have no idea how wrong you are.”

“Sure.” Richie rolls his shoulders, and it’s difficult not to watch the way his muscles stretch and contract.

“Is that you trying to get my attention?”

“Obviously, it’s working,” he says.

Richie smirks at him and takes a swig from his water bottle. He raises his brows as he speaks. 

“You can’t tell me you never thought about it.” He’s acting like they’re talking about the weather, or maybe the new blends they’re selling at Tim Horton’s now that it’s officially the holidays.

Andrew stares Richie right in the face and says, “I’ve never thought about it.”

It’s not necessarily true. You think about everybody, sometimes. It’s not that person entirely, not their facial features or their voice, but Andrew can admit that it’s easy, often enough, to imagine pounding into a guy with Tazer’s ass, or Versteeg’s forearms, or fucking Ryan Kesler’s mouth.

Richie meets his gaze head on and says, “Fine. Doesn’t mean you’re not thinking about it now.”

“I. Think about fucking a lot of people, Richie. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not,” Richie says, and then he leans forward, one hand on Andrew’s hip and the other curled around his back. Andrew’s taller, but Richie’s got some power in his arms and his hips, in his legs. “Bet you’re thinking about it right now.”

Andrew turns his head away to clear his throat. “You’re in my face. It’s kind of hard to think of anything else.”

“Fuck me,” Richie grunts, and Andrew thinks about it. He could, right? It’d be fun, and it’d be good. He can feel Richie’s muscles under his clothes—knows he wouldn’t have to be gentle, wouldn’t have to talk about it afterward.

He doesn’t do the smart thing.

“Why?” he asks, breath coming out faster than it really should be, considering how often he gets propositioned now that he’s living in Canada again.

Richie shrugs. “Because I want you to.”

“Because you just got dumped.”

“Because I just got dumped,” Richie agrees. “You’re not hot, but we’re friends, and you have a pretty good body—”

“Hey, I have a _great_ body,” Andrew interjects, and then: “Wait. You’ve totally thought about me, haven’t you?”

There’s something bubbling up in his stomach. It feels like he’s about to laugh, maybe, or puke. Something’s loosening in his chest and in his brain, something saying _yes_ and _what would be so bad about this, anyway_?

“No,” Richie says, but Andrew can tell he’s lying by the way he turns his head away, like he can sell it if he doesn’t have to look the person he’s speaking to straight in the face.

Andrew’s the one that leans in, ghosting his lips against Richie’s cheek, right against the bone and whispering, “Liar.”

Richie moves like he’s trying to get Andrew off of him, like maybe someone other than Arnold might be around to come in and see, but he started this, and they’re standing in the middle of his kitchen, anyway.

Andrew kisses him because he’s there and he can, and Richie doesn’t disappoint. He kisses back. One of his hands is curled loosely against Andrew’s side, the other pressed against his own stomach.

They’re close enough to the oven that Andrew can hear it when the omelet pan starts to sizzle. He pulls back, breathing deep and says, “Food.”

Richie looks like he’s going to protest, but caps it at the last minute, dumping the eggs onto the plate he’s tucked to the side and elbowing Andrew right in the ribs, steering him toward where the table is set just a few feet away.

They eat in near silence, stuffing their faces while Arnold twines aimlessly between their feet, whining for food.

“This is good,” Andrew says inanely, between bites of egg and pepper and asparagus. Richie shrugs, taking a sip from his glass of juice. 

Andrew rolls his eyes again. Richie is a stubborn fucker almost all the time.

“It’s a little rubbery, though,” he adds, just to be a dick. “Probably because you left it cooking for too long.”

That makes Richie smile, and for some stupid reason, Andrew smiles back. Because he can, maybe; because right now, Richie’s making it easy.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” Richie says, like there’s a direct correlation between that and rubbery eggs. Maybe there is.

“You’re the one who started with the—” Andrew pitches his voice a little higher, even though he and Richie generally sound about the same. “ _I think you should fuck me’s_.”

Richie rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t sound like that,” he says.

“Sure you do.”

They push their plates away at the same time. 

“I won’t call you in the morning,” Richie says. “I don’t want fucking flowers, or shit, you don’t have to text me to ask if I’m _okay_ —”

Andrew gets the feeling he’s speaking from experience. “Alright,” he says. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“That’s your line?” Richie asks.

It’s still raining outside, it hits against the windows steadily, and Arnold has his nose pressed to the door to the screen porch, like he’s torn between being grateful that he’s inside and annoyed that he can’t play in the puddles of water.

“You need a line, loser?” Andrew asks. “You propositioned me in your kitchen.”

;;

They brush their teeth separately, and then Richie takes a half an hour to take the dog out so he doesn’t do something drastic like pee all over the hardwood when he can’t get attention.

Andrew spends a minute looking into the mirror in the guest bathroom. He doesn’t look any different than he had when he’d woken up this morning, when he’d gone to bed last night; doesn’t look any different than he normally does, except for how in a little less than twenty minutes, he’s going to fuck Richie. Whatever that means.

He’s crashing in the nicer of the two guest bedrooms. It’s a little bigger, a little more lived in, and he heads back there while he waits. This whole thing is the kind of weird he’s trained himself not to dwell on, but that doesn’t necessarily make it any less bizarre that he’s going to fuck someone he’s known since Junior.

He plays a few rounds of the new level on Angry Birds Seasons while he waits and doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but it happens anyway. When he wakes up again, he can hear the faint strains of music coming from downstairs.

He heads down without bothering to change out of his sweats and calls out, “Yo, you could have woken me,” before Richie even comes into view.

Richie blinks at him, and that’s when both his brothers come out of the kitchen, Mark with a six-pack and Matt hanging onto a couple of boxes of pizza.

“Ladder!” They say, almost in unison, and he gets a round of high-fives when they’ve dropped their stuff on Richie’s coffee table. “Richie said you left,” Mark says, a few minutes later, taking a pull from his beer and leaning back in the recliner. “Did you sneak back in or something?”

“I,” he says, popping the cap of his own Molson, “never actually made it out of here. Did fall asleep in the guest room like an asshole, though." 

"Makes sense,” Richie says. “You’re an asshole all the time. I wasn't even surprised.”

"My truck is still outside.”

Richie’s too busy picking the label off his beer to turn and look at him. It's annoying.

“I wouldn’t have just left without saying goodbye, fucker. Also, _my truck is still outside_.” Andrew kicks Richie’s ankle, but Richie pretty much ignores him for the better part of an hour, playing NHL 11 with his brothers.

They get through most of the six-pack before Matt says, “Holy shit!” He looks between the game on the big screen and Andrew a few times before adding, “You totally played with Toews this season!”

Andrew laughs and says, “Yeah, I did.” They have a bunch of questions, of course, and even more when Andrew says, “Actually, I’m crashing at his house right now. It’s way better than a hotel. Not that you’d know it, considering he’s a total slob.”

“He’s a _slob_?” Matt asks, and almost tips off the couch. He’s not wasted enough to be that bad on his feet, but only Richie gives him shit for it.

“He just likes to spread his stuff out,” Richie says, like he even knows, but they all laugh again anyway.

Richie's brothers stay for a late dinner, which consists of more steaks grilled on the Hibachi, and Andrew makes the salad for the second night in a row, because he knows where all the fixings are now.

“This is way better than eating at Tazer’s,” he says, when Mark and Matt rib him about being a good little lady in the kitchen. “The food is free, and all I have to do is throw some lettuce in a bowl. I’m not sweating it.”

Richie interrupts the flow by edging back into the room with his platter of cooked meats and says, “Get at ‘em, boys,” with a completely straight face.

They eat family style, quick and dirty over the kitchen table, and the guys stick around for clean up, even if they’re not all that great at loading the dishwasher efficiently.

“I’m taking Arnold out,” Richie says, after his brothers leave. He’d walked them out, and he’s still wearing his Kings track jacket. “You gonna be around when I get back?”

“I wasn’t actually gone the first time,” Andrew points out, but Richie ignores him, bending at the knees and whistling for Arnold to come out of his hiding spot in the laundry room.

Andrew sticks to the kitchen and the den area. His dad’s favorite episode of _I Love Lucy_ is on TV Land so he leaves it, stretching out on the couch and waiting for Richie to get back in. It doesn’t take him all that long. Andrew hears the click of Arnold’s toenails on the hardwood first, hears Richie tossing down his keys and shuffling through the kitchen, turning out the lights and locking the door to the porch, even though there’s no entry from the other side.

“Hey,” he says, coming to stand behind Andrew on the couch.

“Hey,” Andrew replies.

Richie takes his time settling, kicking his feet out so that his toes are barely pressing against Andrew’s thigh. 

“ _Lucy_?” he asks. “Really?”

“Really,” Andrew says, instead of explaining. He lets his hand settle against Richie’s ankle, kneading against the skin there.

They sit like that for a while, watching the back half of Lucy, and then the first few minutes of an episode of _Designing Women_.

“My mother was obsessed with this show when I was a kid,” Richie says, sounding a little sleepy. Andrew’s hand is still on his foot, and he squeezes, once. 

Richie smiles at him, small but genuine. It looks a little weird on his face. Andrew’s not expecting it, but he does anticipate Richie scooting over, tipping his head down so they can kiss.

"Were you chickening out?" Andrew asks, and Richie pulls back. 

He’s not meeting Andrew’s gaze directly, which is pretty ridiculous, considering they’re probably going to be fucking soon.

“Did you even look for me at all?” he asks, and tries not to laugh at the constipated look on Richie’s face.

Richie scratches idly at his neck and doesn’t sound at all convincing when he says, “I looked.”

“Did you think _I_ was chickening out?” Andrew asks. "I wasn't," he says, throat tight. "I'm not."

Richie still won’t look at him, but he goes easily enough when Andrew tugs on his wrist. His knees fit easily on either side of Andrew’s lap.

Figuring each other out again is simple. Andrew knows that Richie’s sides are ticklish from years of exposure, that there’s a weak tendon in his shoulder from a check to the boards in Junior that just never healed up right. He presses his mouth to both those spots, nosing under Richie’s chin, down the pale column of his neck. 

It’s not heated enough that they’re taking off their clothes yet, but the collar of Richie’s t-shirt gets a little stretched anyway, from the way he keeps tugging at it so that Andrew can get at more skin.

“You really want it, huh?” Andrew asks, a little surprised at how rough his voice is just from kissing on the couch. The TV is still going. If he focuses enough, he can make out the laugh track.

Richie’s breathing hard, too, pupils blown. His cheeks are pink under the stubble and Andrew wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s handsome like this, but his dick is definitely interested.

Richie takes a breath and says, “I want you to fuck me,” with surprising clarity.

Right. Right. Okay. Andrew can do that.

“You have stuff?” he asks.

“Fuck off,” Richie says, huffing out an annoyed breath. “What do you think I am, new?” He pushes up and doesn’t offer Andrew a hand this time, but that’s fine. Andrew rolls to his feet on his own, following Richie out of the den and up to his bedroom.

“What do you do with Arnold?” Andrew asks, the thought only occurring to him when Richie’s pressing him up against the door, using his hips to pin him there against the wood, even though he’s shorter and skinnier than Andrew’s been in years.

Richie blinks at him. 

“I don’t have him come in and add his cock to the mix, if that’s what you mean,” he says, voice flat. He’s contained in this way Andrew’s not really familiar with. They’ve been friends for a long time, hung out whenever they were in the same town and had time free, but drinking a beer with somebody every couple months is different than knowing what they look like naked, or how their dick feels in your mouth.

“You did say you were desperate,” Andrew jokes. “I don’t know your life, you might be—” Richie clamps his hand over Andrew’s mouth, muffling the rest of that sentence. It’s weird, but Richie’s hands smell nice, like herbs from the steaks and soap, maybe. Clean.

“Shut up,” Richie grits, pushing closer. “Why the fuck are you always talking?”

Andrew wouldn’t know how to answer, even if he could. Richie grinds their hips together, digging the fingers of his free hand against the skin at Andrew’s wrist. 

“You’re gonna fuck me now,” Richie says, dropping his hands and stepping back. Yeah, Andrew can. He will.

“Let’s do it,” he says, and definitely trips trying to get out of his pants. Richie laughs, choked and a little raspy when Andrew helps him tug his shirt up and over his head. 

He’s seen Richie shirtless a thousand times, in the showers after pickup games, working out, earlier today, even. It’s different, though, there’s intent behind it now. He lets his hands press across the terrible ink scrawled across Richie’s arms, tracing them with the edge of his thumbnail.

Richie wants it on his hands and knees, so that’s what they do, Andrew slicking up the fingers on his right hand, the others pressing steadily against Richie’s side. It’s not _petting_ or even comfort; it’s an extra point of contact, an anchor, maybe, if it’s necessary. Richie’ll tell him if it isn’t, but shit, Andrew’s been on the receiving end just as frequently as he hasn’t, and it’s a fucking weird experience, putting something inside of yourself—having someone do that to you.

“I’m not a fucking girl,” Richie grits out, braced on his forearms at the head of the bed. 

Andrew can’t see his face, which sucks, but the back of his neck is flushed a dull red, and it’s spread down to his shoulders and the fucking ridiculous monstrosity on his shoulder. 

“You don’t need to.” He’s breathing hard as Andrew works him open, using just the tip of his finger first. He’s moving slow, steady, but Richie’s also tighter than anticipated.

Andrew hadn’t been lying, this isn’t something he’s ever really fantasized about, but that’s almost better, because fantasy couldn’t compare to the reality of it. The both of them are tense, Richie cursing him out and fucking _shoving_ himself back once Andrew’s given him some leverage, two fingers in and curling them as much as he can, trying to find that sweet spot that really does exist. Andrew’s felt that electricity enough to know.

“I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me in the next thirty seconds, you’re not—” 

Andrew crooks his fingers up again, and Richie goes still almost immediately, his whole body snapping tight. 

“Do that again, you asshole,” he pleads, and it’s only because Andrew’s so close that he can hear the rawness in his voice, the strain.

Andrew does it again and says, “Adding a third.”

Two isn’t always a big deal, depending on size, but three is pretty much always the litmus test of comfort. If you can handle three, you can handle pretty much anything. Andrew’s respectable when he’s hard, and he doesn’t have a monster cock or anything, but he’s been on the receiving end without being prepped right. He doesn’t want it to hurt unnecessarily.

“ _Fuck_.” Richie curses when Andrew touches him again, snapping open the cap of the Astroglide and coating his fingers with more lube. He slides two in—not easily, but the stretch isn’t too difficult, and Richie’s moaning against the sheets, trying to muffle himself in the pillows and blankets.

“Three,” Andrew says, and then he’s pulling his fingers out slowly, but coming back again almost instantly, slowly spreading Richie, opening him up.

Richie’s still shaking a little, his breaths coming unevenly. “Swear to fucking god, if you don’t put your dick in me, I’m kicking you out of my house.”

Andrew could probably joke around, say something about having Richie right where he wants him, or maybe, like. Maybe say something about how good he feels, how he _will_ feel, but he can’t. This is already awkward enough.

He lets go of Richie’s side, sliding on the condom and smoothing lube over his cock.

“Okay,” he says. “So. Tell me if it’s too much or if I should—”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Richie says, and he’s pulled himself up enough that their eyes meet over his shoulder. “Fuck off, you fucking cocksucker. I wanted you to fuck me, remember? I asked for this. Stop being a pussy about it and put it in me.”

Andrew smiles. “Is this your version of dirty talk? It’s pretty terrible.”

He crooks his fingers up again, as gently as he can, just to see what kind of reaction he’ll get. Richie groans again. 

“Your face,” Richie says, breathing hard. “You’re face is fucking terrible, Laddy. Anybody ever tell you that?”

Lining up is easier from behind. Andrew lets out a deep breath, want pooling in his belly, and pushes inside. It’s hot and Richie’s tight, slicked and ready. He slides home almost easily, working his hips until he’s bottomed out and Richie’s hands are white-knuckled, clinging against the sheets.

“Fuck,” Richie grunts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck." He lets out a litany of curses as Andrew pulls out and pushes back in again, figuring out a rhythm when Richie starts to push himself back again, meeting his thrusts enthusiastically.

Richie jerks himself off. Andrew can’t see it, but he can feel the pull of Richie’s body, how the movements are scooting him forward. He tries to accommodate for it, matching the pace.

He’s not much of a talker, during sex, not really, but Richie says, “Fuck, fuck, Andy. Fuck,” barely even anything worth noting at all, but it still clips Andrew right in the stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing at the sore spot on Richie’s shoulder. “Yeah, I’m here.”

It’s been a while since he’s been with a guy and even longer since he was on top. Richie feels good under his hands, warm and pliant, and he says, “Hey, I’m gonna—”

“Stop. Stop.” Richie goes tense and Andrew freezes, breathing hard, hands on either side of Richie’s hips. He could say something here, too, maybe, apologize for doing such a shit job of this, but Richie cuts him off before he can even put some thoughts together. “Let me just.”

He drops his head down further and mumbles something Andrew can’t make out.

“What?” Andrew asks.

Richie mumbles again and then lifts his head to speak more clearly, “I want to see you.”

Andrew can do that, pulling out slowly enough. Richie’s sweating, some of the moisture collecting in the dips of his collarbones, and that shouldn’t be hot, _isn’t_ hot, but Andrew’s still stuck staring, can’t make himself look anywhere else.

He fits two fingers inside again, stretching him, even though he’s still prepped. He’s just watching now, the way the color breaks across Richie’s face, his lashes fluttering like it feels good, like he still really wants it.

“Fuck me,” Richie says lazily, staring up at Andrew with a half-lidded stare, and yeah, yeah. Okay. Here they go again.

It’s different this way. His thrusts are shallower until Richie hooks his ankle up over his shoulder, groaning when that pulls Andrew in deeper.

“Holy shit,” Andrew says, bracing his hands on Richie’s hips. “Holy shit, man. You feel good.”

Richie grunts but doesn’t say anything, and Andrew drops his forehead to his shoulder, shifting so that he can reach down and tangle their fingers together over his cock, jerking him. 

“Harder,” Richie grits, and Andrew tightens his grip. Richie’s gasping against his neck, hot puffs of air that make him groan, make their hips stutter in time.

Andrew comes first. The stimulation is too much. 

“Are you serious?” Richie whines, but Andrew can’t even care; just tucks his face against Richie’s neck and breathes and breathes. He’s got the tingles, skin tight and on fire.

“Give me two minutes and then you can fuck my mouth,” he says, tying off the condom and aiming for the closest trash receptacle.

“You bet I fucking will,” Richie says. Fair is fair. 

They end up with Andrew on his back, Richie wincing at the strain as he kneels over him, nudging gently at his lips with his dick. 

“You can fuck my mouth,” Andrew says, closing his eyes, and Richie’s not gentle, but it doesn’t really matter, because he doesn’t last long anyway. It's barely a minute and he’s coming with a grunt, fingers clenching and unclenching on his own thighs, hard enough to leave bruises on his skin.

He collapses back on the bed next to Andrew and says, “It’s not cuddling if we’re huddled together for warmth.”

“We should wash up first.” 

Andrew means to get up, he does. The bathroom is attached, not far away at all, but his legs are jelly, and Richie’s warm where they’re still pressed together, a nice alternative to the cool sheets on his other side. 

;;

Andrew wakes up alone. It’s sleeting outside, a combination of rain and hail beating soundly against the windows. He’s still naked, and the house around him is mostly silent, no noise filtering up from the kitchen or the bathrooms.

He’s sticky from leftover sweat and the exertion of coming. It’s a trial to push to his feet, but he does it anyway, heading for Richie’s bathroom to wash the worst of it off.

The shower takes a while to heat up. He splashes cool water on his face as he waits, and checks out his reflection. He doesn’t look much different, except for how his hair is mussed, matted and weird from the sweat and sex. He has no qualms about using Richie’s shampoo and he’s out in ten minutes flat.

It’s not hard to find his clothes. Clearly Richie went cleaning while Andrew was passed out, considering his sweats and t-shirt are folded in a neat pile by the computer chair. His briefs are missing, surprisingly, but he’d been pretty enthusiastic about getting them off. Serves Richie right if he finds them months from now, stuck behind his dresser and smelling like shit.

It makes him laugh, even as he’s heading back across the hall and gearing himself to look through his stuff for the truck keys. 

Richie’s asleep on the bed when he pushes in, though, which is probably—no, definitely, the last thing Andrew would have ever expected. Arnold is up on the bed too, and his eyes slit open as he sees Andrew coming closer.

“Hey, bud,” he whispers, holding his hand out again. Arnold sniffs him tentatively, like Andrew hasn’t spent almost every waking hour with him over the last two days. “Only me,” he adds, like maybe the dog was brushing up on his English while he and Richie were going at it.

Arnold just licks his hand, though, like maybe he had been, or maybe he just recognizes Andrew as the vaguely person-shaped blob that’s been hanging around in his kitchen. 

Richie doesn’t wake up. Not when Andrew kneels beside him, and not when the dog rolls over, too, making space for him there, right on the edge of the mattress. It’s not cuddling if just their backs are touching, Andrew thinks, and then he falls asleep.


End file.
